Black and White
by alliluna
Summary: Summer 1919. In the months following Lavinia's death, Matthew struggles to come to terms with what he has seen and what he has yet to see.
1. Chapter 1

White. Bright, summer white. They were all dressed in pastels, and he felt sorely out of place in his gray attire and black mourning band. He felt too different, like an alien from a different land. He hadn't really wanted to come.

Robert had initially come to Crawley House to ask him to play, but it wasn't like he would be able to play, even if he had wanted to. He could barely walk, let alone run around playing sports like he did as a boy. He hadn't played cricket since his father died, and he didn't really want to pick it up again. But Robert had seemed so disappointed, so let down that Matthew let himself be coerced into coming to the annual House vs. Village cricket match. He would watch, and maybe even make conversation with the family, something he hadn't done very much in the past months. And so he was here, despite his conscience telling him he shouldn't go. He shouldn't go have fun at a cricket match while Lavinia was rotting in the ground.

He didn't really want to socialize with the family today, so he scoped out a bench that was on the sidelines, a ways away from everyone. He really didn't want to face any of them. Least of all Mary.

Matthew hadn't been up at the big house since Lavinia's death. He had barely left Crawley House for two weeks after her death, sulking and being a general nuisance to his mother. How she put up with his awful moods was beyond him. But after two weeks had passed, she encouraged him to at least do something.

Easy for her to say. She was always so wrapped up in her work. But he had returned to work. It was a welcome excuse to avoid dinners up at the big house and it kept him occupied, kept his mind away from anger and self-pity. There, nobody asked him about his personal life. The other men at the firm, some similarly scarred by war, did not ask him how he was feeling or wonder what his past was like. They simply came, did their work, and went home. It suited him.

Isobel had reluctantly suggested he go to Manchester and work there for a few months, just to get away from it all. She didn't really want him to go, she wanted to be there for him, but she knew it might do him some good. It seemed a nice solution, to go back to his home, where he grew up, and forget the past couple years. He considered it, and nearly decided to go, but for reasons he couldn't even explain, he had decided to stay. He couldn't leave Downton, not even now.

So here he was.

He carefully eased himself down onto the bench, propping his stick on the side. Sharp pain shot through his back, and he silently cursed his injury, though he tried not to show any expression of discomfort. The day was pleasant enough, a warm June day with sun shining and not a cloud in the sky. The cricket game itself was decent, although the house, which he felt obligated to cheer for, was losing sorely to the village. But all in all, he felt there was no point to him coming. Nobody seemed to notice him over here, and he would have been more contented at home reading.

That was, until she came over.

He hadn't seen her since the funeral, that awful day where he had accused her of killing Lavinia. Perhaps he was being overdramatic, but who else could he blame? He blamed himself, of course. But someone had to be at fault for a woman, barely older than a girl, to die that young. It wasn't natural, it wasn't fair. Flu wasn't supposed to take young women in their prime. Just like war wasn't supposed to take young men who should have been courting pretty young girls and falling in love. Instead, they were getting killed by the thousands and coming back completely changed, both physically and mentally.

Matthew looked up at her, wearing a loose, elegant dress of light blue and a white hat. She was a sight to behold, as always. He couldn't help but smile when he saw her, despite his best efforts. "Mary!" he exclaimed, his voice betraying his attempt at indifference. What was the point? No matter what he had accused her of, he was never going to be able to contain his feelings about her.

"Why are you sitting all the way over here? You seem awfully lonely." She was bright, cheerier than he'd seen her for a while. Richard Carlisle was nowhere in sight. But was she really this happy, or was she putting on a face for him?

He shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe I feel like being lonely. Besides, I walked up from the house and my back started hurting again so I sat down at the nearest bench." It was an excuse, and they both knew it, but he certainly wasn't going to admit that he was avoiding her. Besides, his back was hurting, so it wasn't a total lie.

"I haven't seen you around much." she replied, sitting next to him on the bench. He envied her ease, her smooth manner. She was so good at being alright, so good at pretending nothing had ever happened between them.

He bit his lip. "Well, I've been busy with work..."

"Yes, so your mother had told us. What do they do to you in that place that you can't get home in time for dinner?" she asked. It was a joke, but he looked uneasy.

"The firm is not quite as full as it used to be. It was actually easy to find a job. They're missing so many men these days..."

Mary sighed. She hadn't seen the war directly, but she had seen the men damaged by it, knew far too many who had died. "That's too bad. Without you and Sybil, dinner has rather become a trifling bore. Even Granny has been more subdued." She cracked a smile at her own joke. "But honestly, I've missed you. And I think Papa gets quite lonely being the only man in the dining room after dinner. I suspect he converses with Carson."

He too was able to manage a tight smile. He hadn't really, truly smiled since Lavinia died. Even so, the thought of stoic, traditional Carson having an after-dinner drink with Robert was quite amusing.

"So, anything else new and exciting?"

"Well, we're going up to Sybil's wedding next month, Edith and I. Papa and Granny won't come, and Mama still isn't feeling up to a trip to Ireland. And you? How is your recovery coming?"

"Pretty well, I think. I go up to London for therapy on Saturdays, and it's helping a great deal. They say I should be completely back to normal by the end of summer," he said, a little bit of a grimace crossing his face. How was it fair that he had gotten all this back, that his only inconvenience would be a lingering bruise on his spine that might cause him some pain? He had hurt so many people and taken so much, and now he was nearly back to normal. A cane that he didn't need as much anymore and could soon get rid of altogether was the only visible vestige of his injury.

She patted his hand. "That's wonderful. I'm so very glad for you."

"Why was I so lucky though, Mary? So many men, far better men than I, they died on the front or got injured to the point where their lives would never be the same again. But here I am, nearly unscathed, and I hurt Lavinia like that. I've hurt you as well." He stared into her deep brown eyes looking for something. Answers, maybe? He knew he wouldn't find them there, but he could look all the same.

"Don't think that way, Matthew. I'm not sure why you survived, or why you recovered, but surely there is a reason. But...I can't deny that you've hurt me. In fact, you've hurt me a great deal. I didn't believe you when you said we killed Lavinia, but all the same, you've hurt me. Matthew, that kiss...we shouldn't have. We both knew that we would go back to our fiancees, and that this would just linger between us. We were stupid, Matthew, so stupid."

He laughed, but it was a hysterical, depressed laugh. Laughing at his own misfortune, like he had in that hospital bed, while she had sat by his side. That angry laugh that in turn made her angry. It made her want to slap him sometimes, to try and get him to see sense. But he laughed, and he gave her a glance that seemed to say that she was stating the obvious. "We've always been stupid. If we were smart, we would have been engaged in 1914. If we had been smart, maybe we wouldn't have gotten involved with each other in the first place. You could have just kept ignoring my puppy dog eyes and calling me a sea monster." Another laugh, another humorless laugh at himself.

Mary cast her eyes downwards, thinking about the truth of his words. Had she not been stupid, she wouldn't have flirted her way to disaster. If she hadn't been so stupid, maybe she wouldn't have gotten engaged to Carlisle. But she had been stupid, a bonafide idiot. "Here we are again. Knowing we've gone too far. And yet, we can't ever stop it, can we?"

He didn't reply. There was no answer to her frank words, no way to really say how he felt. How he would love to have her, to call her his. In the nagging corner of his mind, he knew that wouldn't happen. It couldn't happen. It would be so unfair to poor Lavinia, and besides, Mary was engaged.

"Why are you engaged to Carlisle?" he asked finally. It seemed out of the blue to Mary, so random. He hadn't asked it before, why would he ask it now? He never seemed to question it, not when he was engaged to Lavinia. But then again, maybe it felt wrong then.

"There isn't a simple answer to that question." She silently willed him to accept her answer.

Of course he didn't. "Nothing is simple with you."

She shook her head. "He likes the power and position it gives him. I'm not sure how much he actually likes me."

"Then why marry him?"

A pained expression flitted across her face. There was no way to explain it without telling him about the Pamuk incident. And she wasn't ready to tell him about that. "It isn't black and white, and there are things I can't explain. Not yet anyway. But I have to marry him."

The wheels were turning in his head. His bright blue eyes stared at the game in front of him, not even noticing the players. "No, you don't."

"Oh, I remember me telling you I didn't have to marry him and what did you say to that?"

"I said that you did, didn't I?" He looked to the side, up, anywhere to avoid her heavy gaze. "I suppose Carlisle isn't too fond of me. Am I being an argument to your marriage now? Perhaps I should go jump into the river. At least I'm able now."

Mary would have laughed if what he was saying wasn't so true. So painfully true. When he had been injured, she would have gladly spent her life by his side. There was no Lavinia to worry about, no hard feelings between them anymore. The war had put what was important and what was not in perspective. But now the war was over, Matthew had recovered, Lavinia was dead, and she was still trapped in an engagement she didn't want. And once again, there was tension upon tension. She opened her mouth to speak. "No. Of course you shouldn't. Don't bother worrying about what Carlisle thinks of you. I don't think about it."

"You're engaged to him."

"And as I am engaged and he doesn't seem keen to let me go anytime soon, I don't feel like I need to worry about his impression of me. He's seen the real me, the true me I'm not exactly proud of."

Matthew lifted an eyebrow. "And I don't know the real you? I'd like to think I do."

"As it stands now, I'm afraid you don't. And perhaps it's better that way. And I didn't really want to show Carlisle that side of me, but I had no choice. And now I have to marry him."

He found the courage to turn around and look back into her eyes. Those deep brown pools that he had found himself lost in many a time. "Sounds like a perfect basis for a marriage to me."

"Oh don't be sarcastic, it doesn't suit you," she said quickly. She was getting uncomfortable with this conversation. It was too close to home, too close to the things hidden that she wanted to keep hidden. She couldn't talk to him about Carlisle. She suddenly felt that it was wrong to be talking to him all. She was alone with a man who had once proposed to her, and while Matthew was nothing short of honorable, propriety frowned on these kinds of encounters. "Granny's probably wondering where on earth I am. I promised to sit with her so that she and your mother wouldn't tear each other apart."

Matthew laughed, or at least he tried to. He was unsatisfied with the end of their conversation, of course, not pleased with the answers he had gotten. It was nearly impossible to get anything out of Mary, at least anything that convinced him. And he was nowhere closer to making sense of his tangled emotions. His twisted web of a relationship with Mary.

She was heavenly as she walked away, the sun reflecting off of the bright white rim of her hat. A dark-haired angel who made him question everything. A perfect paragon of beauty and style, coolness and grace, and yet, such a complicated woman. Why would she have ever come even close to love with a fool, a cad like him? He bristled from the effects her glib words had on him. She was so nonchalant about the whole Carlisle situation, although he was more convinced than ever that she didn't love him. Sure, she chatted politely with him at dinner, even hung on his arm and simpered to him some nights, but Matthew knew her too well. He knew it was an act.

A fist hit his leg, a frustrated motion that he regretted seconds later. Only Mary could cause that kind of emotion in him, the kind of high feelings that would make him hurt his already weak legs in frustration. And he resented Mary for it. Mary and her stupid, stupid charming ways. Mary who rejected him, or maybe he rejected her. Mary who was now engaged, and seemed okay with her engagement, if a little bit wary of Carlisle. She had her own life.

And where did he fit into all of this, into Mary's personal life? Maybe he didn't fit in at all, just the cousin who had taken what was rightfully hers, who rejected her because he was so blind as to not see that she truly loved him. Surely as a child, he would have cast himself as the knight in shining armor, coming in to save the fair princess from a dreaded marriage to a horrible man. But this was not a fairy tale, and everything was so much more complicated. He certainly was not a knight in shining armor, perhaps not even a knight in rusting armor. He had deprived a woman of her will to live through thoughtless actions, That wasn't what the knight in shining armor did. Mary was not a quiet, demure princess, and should she be in trouble, she would certainly fight her corner. And Carlisle was no evil count, even if he wasn't the kindest of men.

He grabbed his stick and stood up. Stiff all over, and he hadn't even played in the game. The village team was celebrating, while those from the house stood to the side, looking slightly dejected. A disappointment, for sure, but he couldn't say he was too sad. He had barely watched the game at all. And there they all were, in their bright white clothing, all so happy, all so settled into their lives. And he teetered at the edge of it all. He didn't know where he stood with anyone, really. Not with Mary, not with Robert, not even with his own mother. She was an absolute angel for putting up with him, but she had seemed more distant, more reserved. He didn't really blame her.

He took one last glance back at everyone. Mary, there with Cousin Violet and his mother. Robert, looking rather upset but trying to make meaningful conversation with Edith. The people from the village. Their lives all looked so black and white from the outside, while his was thousands of different shades of gray. He found that he suddenly had a headache, and so he started his way slowly, painfully towards his home.

Matthew knew very little anymore. When he was younger, he thought he had everything in place. He was a young lawyer with strong convictions and a heart that was is love with Mary Crawley. Then she didn't accept his proposal, and he didn't know what to think, and everything changed. He went off to war, and in the battlefields of France, he wasn't sure of anything. And then when he came back, everything was so thick, people so unreadable, friendships carried so much baggage. And he felt he knew nothing.

All he knew was that nothing was black and white.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much to all of you who reviewed the last chapter. Your input means so much to me! :)

I decided to continue this because the first chapter was really fun to write and I had a couple requests that I continue. So I think I will write one more installment after this. It's my spring break week, so I have plenty of time to write. If the formatting is weird on here, I'm sorry about that. I'm still trying to figure out the document editor and all that.

Also, if you have a tumblr, I'm alliluna24 on tumblr, and I would be so grateful if you checked it out! Thanks!

Enjoy the story! 

Black smoke arose from the train pulling into the station, floating up onto the backdrop of a gray sky. Rain was threatening the city of London, a summer storm looming.

He could tell that rain was coming. The injury that had turned his back into that of an old man decided to flare up and make him sore beyond measure whenever rain was imminent. He took a look up at the smoke and sighed.

"Matthew!" A surprised voice sounded through the crowd, and he turned around as quickly as he could to see Mary standing there, a coat of deep burgundy contrasting with her pale skin. "What are you doing up here?"

He studied her, her defeated poise, worried eyes, tired face. She had obviously had an unhappy meeting. "Therapy," he replied. "I'm heading back to Downton now."

"How funny. I'm going back right now, too. Would you be so good as to ride with me?" Her voice was happy, cheery, a stark contrast against the gray day and against his mood. It really was not good for him to ride trains alone, as he had far too much time with his faults. Too much time to both pity and guilt pulsing pain in his back, a result of both a strenuous therapy session and the miserable weather, was certainly not improving his mood.

What else could he answer her? What else could he say to her eager request. "Why not?" He didn't want to show her how much he would love to be in a train car alone, with just her. Just them and their memories.  
She smiled and took the arm that his cane was not in. "Let's go then. We're boarding now."

"What are you doing up in London?" he asked, as they made their way to the car.  
This question made her sigh a bit. Whatever reason she had been up here, it wasn't the pleasantest of trips. "Oh, Richard wanted me to come up. His sister came from Scotland and he wanted me to meet her. To be honest, she wasn't the most pleasant sort."

Matthew was not surprised by this. "Kind of like Richard himself?"

She looked like she was going to be angry, but she relaxed a little bit. "I never took it upon myself to insult Lavinia. Don't say anything about my fiancee's qualities, or lack of."

"You couldn't ever find anything to insult Lavinia with," he whispered. She had hit a sore spot, a place where he didn't want to go. Every day, he had tried to make Lavinia the farthest thing from his mind. He knew he shouldn't, but he wanted to forget. To leave the four years of war behind him, to blot them from the books and to pretend they never happened. And Lavinia was a big part of those four years. Not the bad part, of course, she had been one of the lights of his life. But every memory he had of her, every scene that played out, was during that time he so desperately longed to forget. "I'm sorry, that was callous. It's apparent that I'm not fond of Carlisle, I'm sure, but I shouldn't insult him."

Mary realized how hard her words were, but she was not one to apologize. "Here's our car," she informed him. It was fairly obvious, but she had to find something to say, something to break the tension.

He nodded. "After you."

The train car was nice, a cushy, private, first class compartment. Matthew immediately sank into a seat, enjoying the relief it gave him. "Is your back hurting?" Mary asked, ever observant.

"It usually does after therapy. And on rainy days. So yes, as I just had therapy and it's a rainy day, it is hurting me quite a bit." He rubbed the sore muscles in his legs. "Actually, it's not as bad as it used to be after a therapy session. Sometimes, I had to stay at a hotel because I was just in too much pain to ride the train back home. I haven't had to do that for a while."

"Hmm." She looked out the window as the train began to pull out of the station. "Would you like me to help?"

Words echoed in his mind. 'You must tell me if there's anything I can do, anything at all,' she had said at Lavinia's grave. What could she do to help? If anything, she had always harmed him, making him fall hopelessly in love and then keeping him waiting long enough that his stubbornness took over and he rejected her. Dancing with him that night, the night before she died. What could she do? But he was curious to find out. "Help with what?"

"Your back pain," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His brow furrowed. "Because you know so much about it." His sarcastic, bitter tone was not one he had used before the war, not one he had even needed to use before then.

"I do know a fair bit about it. I did my research, you know."

He laughed. "Lady Mary Crawley, pouring over medical books like her little sister? You and Sybil are more alike than I thought."

Mary scoffed at his joking. "Perish the thought. I would never think to run off with the chauffeur."

"But really, did you?" His features softened.

"Of course I did. Both before and after we learned you would recover. I wanted to know as much as I could so that I could help you. Of course, you were with Lavinia so it all seems rather trivial now, but..."

He interrupted. "Thank you."

"What?"

"I said thank you."

She shook her head. "What for? I never really did all that much. Once Lavinia came back, she was the one who helped you the most."

"You did plenty. And the fact that you even did research proves it. Lavinia was a wonderful nurse as well, and I've given her credit where credit is due. She came back, and that I found to be a trait of a truly loyal woman. But you...you never left me and you wanted nothing in return." It was odd, really, to be thanking Mary like this. Just a few months ago, he had refused to acknowledge her in any way, completely consumed by thoughts of Lavinia. But now, he finally had a chance to thank her for all that she did.

She cast her eyes downward. "It was all part of my duty."

"Are you really a creature of duty?" he asked, a playful glint in his eye.

The once familiar scene played in her mind again. She and Matthew over sandwiches, young and naive. "I've never really seen myself that way."

He shifted in his seating, trying to hide his grimace. "Well, maybe you should look again."

"Are you sure you don't want my help with your back pain?" Mary studied him with a critical eye.

"Again, what can you do?"

She stood up, a little bit wobbly because of the fast moving of the train car. "Can you lie down on the seat?"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. Such a Mary thing to do. "Lie down on the seat, on your stomach. I'm going to give you a massage."

His facial expressions changed to ones of disbelief. "You're going to give me a massage? Is that even proper?"

"You're middle class, since when did you care about proper?" She prodded him gently. "Lay down. I promise, I know what I'm doing. And besides, who will see?"

He raised an eyebrow in protest, but Mary had a way of convincing him. "This seems so odd, you know," he muttered as he tried to stretch out on the seat the best he could. His suit jacket was taken off and thrown onto the floor of the train car. He was much longer than the seat, so he bent his knees and rested his feet against the window while Mary leaned over his back.

"You seem to think a great number of things are odd. I'd be surprised to find something you thought was normal," Mary replied, a cool, even tone to her voice.

"I don't think death is odd...not anymore."

"Hmm?"

He tried to relax the best he could with Mary's soft hands digging into his back muscles. It hurt, but it felt so good at the same time. "I mean, it's still terrible. But when I was a boy, I used to think death was odd. I had a great suspension of disbelief, but I thought death was odd. And then my father died..."

Mary shook her head as she trailed off. "Of course...I'm sorry."

"He died years ago. But now, after the trenches, and Lavinia...death seems so normal. And that makes me even sadder."

"I wasn't sad when Patrick died," Mary admitted. "I wasn't as sad as I was supposed to be, and that was what made me sad. Then there was Edith, bawling her eyes out over my fiancee..." She dug her hands again into the muscles and he tensed. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to make sure he was okay.

Matthew laughed. "No, it's fine. Just a little sensitive."

"So I would imagine," she replied. "You know, I think some of Edith's feelings for Patrick were just to spite me. She probably convinced herself that she was in love with Patrick so that she might get his attention and she would become the countess."

"You always think the worst of Edith, don't you?" His tone was joking, but he was intensely curious.

Mary didn't flinch at this. "Maybe. But doesn't she annoy you?"

"I like Edith far more than I did before the war," he said. There, that could please both sides. Saying he actually liked Edith and enjoyed her company would surely get him a reprimand from Mary. But Edith was much nicer now, and when Mary had been busy, Edith had always been willing to stop and talk with him while he was in the convalescent home. And Edith wasn't much of a person for making easy, entertaining conversation with, she would always lend a sympathetic ear. "In fact, I think the war has made both you and Edith nicer."

"And Sybil?" She took his hands off his back to cross her arms and wait for a reply.  
He turned his head to look at her. "Considering that Sybil was the nicest person I'd ever known before the war, I don't think she could get much nicer."

"Of course. Sybil, who ran off with the chauffeur, is the perfect paragon of virtue," Mary muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Her hands returned to his back and once again, ghosted across the scarred skin. He grinned into the seat. "Don't forget, I rescued her once. And you all thought that she had a crush on me."

"But she was actually interested in Branson," Mary finished, laughing easily. She sat back down on her seat. "Is that better?"

He nodded. "Quite a bit, actually. Thank you. You don't know how much you've helped me."

Mary took her burgundy jacket off, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath. "It's quite stuffy in here. And I'm sure I'm nothing compared to a doctor or nurse when it comes to massaging, but..."

"You are a nurse," he interrupted.

"Not trained..."

He shrugged. "What difference does it make? You may not have trained like Sybil did, but you and Edith both cared for injured soldiers. In a sense, that makes you a nurse." He was adamant that Mary have recognition. She had gone too long without it.

Mary smiled at him. "I suppose the difference is that everyone trusts Sybil not to murder someone while she's nursing. They can't put the same confidence in me."

"I had confidence you wouldn't kill me," he replied with a slight smirk.

"Mama was so scared that Edith would accidentally hurt one of the soldiers. Edith is so clumsy, you know."

Matthew tried to smile. Did he really want to chat about such inane things? Remembering the war, and the convalescent home, and Mary's care of him? Not really. He wanted answers, straight answers that she refused to give him. He wanted to know how she still felt about him, and where she stood with Carlisle.

"Matthew?"

"Hmm?"

Mary shook her head. "You were lost in thought over there."

He quirked his mouth up. "I usually am." It was true. His mind was always working, always analyzing whatever situation came up. Always being confused. He found that being able to be lost in thought was a welcome change from the trenches, where he always had to be sharp and alert. Where he couldn't have emotion.

"What were you thinking about?" She scanned his face, trying to detect anything that might give her a clue.

"I was wondering how your meeting with Carlisle went. And I was trying to imagine his sister," Matthew said. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about Carlisle, but more specifically Carlisle and Mary.

Mary blinked quickly. "Oh...well, it went fine. I mean, I don't think his sister is too fond of me, she must know..."

"Know what?" There was something. Something Mary wasn't telling him.

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just that we're not really in love, but he's marrying me for position and power. I think she fancies herself a romantic."

He couldn't hold back the laughter that wanted to escape him. "I can't imagine Richard Carlisle's sister being a romantic." He wasn't sure why he was laughing so much, it wasn't even that funny.

Tension was high and they both needed something to ease it.

"I wouldn't have thought it either. She doesn't look like much, she's very tall and thin and has an absolutely terrible sense of fashion. The coat she was wearing was the ugliest green I've ever seen," Mary replied. Of course, this was true, that Carlisle's sister was not much to look at, but she was certainly not a romantic. And Mary hoped that Matthew would never have to meet her. If he did, he would know she had lied.  
He tried to force out another laugh. "You're such a snob. But really, do you like Carlisle?"

"I have to like him. I'm going to marry him, aren't I?" Her tone suddenly grew cold, collected, and uncomfortable.

"You once said you didn't have to marry him," he reminded her quickly. "That hasn't changed, has it?"

She nodded. "It has changed, I'm afraid. I think he was a little bit concerned that I wouldn't stay engaged to him, so when the chance came up...I asked him to do something for me. If I don't marry him, he won't do it."

Here he was getting somewhere. It was nowhere close to the answers he wanted, but it was more than what she had told him before. "And what exactly is he doing for you?"

"I...I can't tell you. Not now, not yet," she replied with that quiet, almost afraid tone that he so rarely heard from her. Mary was usually so strong, so unafraid. Her words worried him, made him fear for her.

A terrible thought struck him. "Is Carlisle hurting you?"

"No, not at all!" Mary defended quickly. "No, he isn't hurting me. He's holding me under the favor he's doing for me."

"So, he's blackmailing you?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, not really. He's helping me out because of something stupid I did in the past, and in return I will marry him. So it's more of an exchange of favors."

"What did you do? Does it involve me?" This really worried him. Mary was being so resigned to what was happening, seemingly unwilling to fight it. This wasn't Mary-like behavior. Not what his contrarian cousin did.

"Matthew, shut up! I can't tell you, and I don't really want to discuss this." Mary crossed her arms. "Please...just leave me alone."

He leaned back, bristling at her angry words. "I'm sorry...I'm just..."

"Just what?" Biting sarcasm found its way into her voice.

"Remember when I told you that if Carlisle did anything to hurt you, he'd have me to answer to? Mary, I couldn't bear it if he hurt you," he confessed.

Mary sighed. "I don't need a protector. It's honorable of you and all, but I can fend for myself."

The train began to slow down as it pulled into the station. "Oh, it's almost dinnertime," Mary said, looking at the large clock at the platform. "Will you join us?"  
He shook his head. "I should be getting home." He carefully got up from his seat, grabbed his cane, and motioned toward the door of the train car. "Thank you...for the ride and everything. I don't like riding trains alone."

She didn't question this, but smiled. "Goodnight." And like that, she was gone.  
And once again, nothing was black and white with her.


	3. Chapter 3

_I know it's probably been a month since I last updated...whoops. Life gets in the way of things, and I am a procrastinator. But thanks to about nine hours in the car this weekend, and the wonderful ability to read (and consequently write) in the car gave me time to write this. So, enjoy, and reviews always make my day. :)_

* * *

The cemetery was empty when Matthew made his way over to it. The bright August day wasn't enough to cheer him on this miserable anniversary.

One year ago, William had died.

He wasn't there. Not for William's wedding, not for William's funeral. There was no way he could have made it, of course. He was still too weak to even sit up then. Mary had described every detail of the funeral, assured him that it was perfectly lovely and that William was at peace. But he had wrestled with his demons on that day. He had been mad at himself for being so upset about his own situation when it could have been worse. When he could have been dead.

Mary had tried to convince him that it was good for him to be alive, but in those first dark months, he wasn't quite so sure. He had once admitted to Sybil that he wished William hadn't bothered. Of course, this had gotten him a gentle reprimand, with the kind of firmness and sweetness only Sybil could give. From then on, he hadn't said anything like that aloud, but he couldn't keep from thinking it.

Even now, he wasn't sure if William's sacrifice had truly been worth it. The family seemed to think so, after all, what was losing a footman to losing the heir? But only Mary knew what he had done, how he had been such a cad to Lavinia.

And nobody but Mary knew. Mary, who despite this, had never been anything but polite. A little standoffish, perhaps, but that was normal. He deserved less. She had kept making idle chatter with him on the rare occasions when he came to dinner, carefully steering around the issue of her engagement. She was so cool, so gracious, so good at pretending nothing had happened between them.

And this drove him made. He would much rather have had her not speaking to him, ignoring him, telling him what a horrible person he was. It was what she should have done. It frustrated him to see her so nonchalant about everything he had done. Sin should be punished, and since she was the only one to know of his sin, she should be the one to punish him. But no, she would keeping on being a perfect, polite lady to the stupid middle class cad he was. And that he couldn't stand.

Maybe it was his fault, like most things seemed to be, that Mary was keeping such a sense of normalcy around him. After Lavinia's funeral, he had tried to avoid her, but when he knew he couldn't avoid her forever, he tried to speak to her as if nothing had happened. Maybe she was taking cues from him.

He stepped closer to the grave, his blue eyes, still so bright despite the dark world that they saw, studying the cross on which William's name was printed. Would he have sacrificed his own life for William's, given the chance? He wasn't sure, but then again, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

His ears, always keen and alert, picked up soft footsteps on the grass behind her. He turned slowly, the quick movements that he used to do in the trenches quite a bit more difficult now.

She stood there. In a simple white blouse and brown skirt, she stood there. "Mary," he breathed, standing there in shock for a couple of seconds. "What are you doing here?"

"I knew William too," she replied. "I quite liked him, actually. He was sweet, and I admired his dedication to both his family and our family. I felt I ought to pay my respects." She touched his arm gently. "We're all so thankful for his sacrifice."

Matthew exhaled loudly, eyes flitting from the grave to Mary, back and forth. "Should you be? I've been nothing but miserable ever since I came back, and I've probably been miserable to be around."

"If you were at any time, which I don't recall, then you had every right to be miserable. I know you've been through a lot the past year, but I think you've handled it admirably. And I think we can finally move on from the war. It's over, the treaty has been signed, and life is coming back to us."

She didn't understand. How could she? "I honestly don't see why you think so highly of me. You've seen all that I've done. I can't move on."

Her expression was unreadable. "Please try. Papa keeps asking why you seem so distant lately, and I don't really want to explain. It's been four months and you need to come back to life."

Matthew had no response. A silence descended over them, and the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the sound of the wind rustling the branches of the trees.

How could she expect him to be happy, to live the way that he did before the war? To be that person he used to be? He was so different now, he couldn't ever go back to the way he was. He couldn't be content living with his mother, being a solicitor for the rest of his life, but he didn't know what he wanted.

"Where is your stick, Matthew?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. She looked delighted, and he couldn't help but feel that she shouldn't be so delighted for him.

He shrugged. "I don't really need it that much."

Her smile was bright, happier than he had seen it for a long time. "I'm so glad. Is your therapy done with, then?"

"I think so. I'm mostly back to normal now, although they say I probably will have some back problems and pain that they can't really fix. But it's a fairly minor thing, I should think." He sighed a little bit. "I deserve worse."

Mary pressed her lips together in apprehension. "Of course you don't. Nobody, except maybe the people who started this stupid war in the first place, deserve to go through all that you...all that any of the soldiers went through. And I don't think war cares about who deserves what."

"He deserved so much more..." Matthew said finally, having stared at the cross for far too long. "He loved Daisy very much, he wouldn't talk about anything else. Even though we were in the middle of a war, he still remained sweet and bright. If anyone was brave, he was."

Mary sighed. "The war was terribly unfair," she acknowledged. And it still hadn't left them behind. The house often invited people who wanted to see where their son, their sweetheart, their father, their friend convalesced. It was hard to see how no one, not even young children, could be left untouched. Almost everyone had lost someone close to them. Not all who were lost had died, though. Some had lost their sanity in the trenches, some their ability to have some semblance of a normal life. It almost frightened her when she remembered that Matthew's fate was nearly that of those angry, depressed soldiers who lived but lost their livelihood.

"That's quite the understatement," Matthew muttered, but there was nothing else to say.

"Would you have gone to war if I had accepted you?" The matter had weighed heavily on Mary ever since she first heard that he had enlisted. She hated to think that it could have been her that drove him to war.

He shook his head. "I probably would have gone anyway. Even if I hadn't, I would likely have been conscripted."

"Mmm." She bent down and picked a wildflower that was growing in the grass. "I think we ought to put flowers on his grave, don't you?"

Matthew looked between the small flower in her hand and William's grave. "Not those. He deserves real ones. I don't think Mother would mind if we took some from our garden," he answered, pointing in the direction of Crawley House.

"Very well, then. We should go do that then." She started towards the house.

They walked in companionable silence to Crawley House, strolling leisurely as to account for Matthew's slower pace. Isobel was at the hospital, and Molesley and Mrs. Byrd were doing work around the house, so it was relatively easy to slip into the garden unnoticed.

"It's nice here. It's been a long time since I've been here, but I quite like it," Mary commented. The last time she had been here was long ago, during the war, when she had encountered Lavinia on her way to talk to Matthew. Now the war was over, Lavinia was gone, but the same colorful flowers were still in bloom.

He nodded his agreement, carefully bending over to pick a couple of yellow flowers. He wasn't exactly sure what they were called, but he knew how much William loved the color yellow.

Mary was a little bit more skilled in picking and arranging flowers, and in a matter of minutes, she had collected a nice bouquet of flowers, a ribbon that she had managed to produce tied around the stems. "What do you think?"

"They're very nice," he said, because what else could he say?

"They remind me of my childhood," Mary said, smiling a little bit. "We had a dog, Osiris, who died when I was eight. For the next about...four years, Sybil and I would sneak out of the nursery maybe twice a year, steal flowers from the garden, and go put them on the spot where Osiris was buried. We were so sure nobody knew about it, but when I was twelve or so, Papa was standing at Osiris' grave when we got there with the flowers, and he chided us for escaping from our governess. After that I stopped doing it, but I don't think Sybil did.'

He laughed hesitantly. "You three must have been a handful."

"Sybil was. Edith never broke the rules, but she was so self-righteous and whiny, which she still is."

"And you?"

She raised a dark eyebrow. "I was a perfect child. How could you assume otherwise?"

Her lightheartedness was enough to lift his spirits, even on such a dark day for him. She was so easy with him, it wasn't fair. He didn't have any doubt that Mary was at the very least a charming child, as she had grown up into such a fascinating woman who seemed to find it so easy to talk to him.

He couldn't sort her out.

"Shall we go back then?" Mary interrupted his thoughts with a cheerful tone and a bright, although somewhat exaggerated smile.

Matthew gave a small nod and slowly trailed his cousin out of the garden, trying to make sense of her. She seemed to be putting on a cheery attitude for his sake, not for her own. Maybe it was something about William's death, Lavinia's death, and everything that had fallen on him in the past year. Possibly, but he was intuitive, and his intuition told him that she was hiding something.

Carlisle? Perhaps. It wouldn't surprise him if she was unhappy with Carlisle, but he didn't want to ask. He'd already questioned her enough on that front.

So he followed her back to the graveyard, placed the flowers on William's grave, and remained at the cemetery as she left, not knowing what else to do.

But the world was shades of gray to him now, shades where most everything was dark. William was dead, Lavinia too, and he wasn't quite sure how to go on .


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi everybody! First of all, I'd like to thank you all for your kind reviews and messages! I've gotten so much support for this story and I love you all! You are all so amazing! Hugs to everyone. :) This has been so much fun to write! I only planned for it to be three chapters or somewhere around there but it still is begging to be written so I have no end in sight. Hopefully we'll start having some plot somewhere around here (what a shocker that would be)._

_I really hope you enjoy this chapter and reviews are always appreciated!_

* * *

"Matthew?" Isobel's brisk tone made him glance up quickly. He had been reading his newspaper, which seemed to be nothing but stories about repercussions of the war or some sort of scandal, both of which he found incredibly bothersome. Still, he was a man of routine, and his routine of reading the newspaper was a very hard one to break.

He didn't reply, just focused his blue eyes on Isobel, who gave him a tight smile. She had been cautious around him the past couple months, not sure what to make of his volatile and maudlin moods. The last time he had been like this was when his father died, and he had only been ten, a little boy simply trying to understand the world, this whole event rocking him like none other. But this was different. He seemed to take it all on himself, becoming more introverted than he already was. She just couldn't understand, and he didn't care to explain.

"We're going to dinner at the abbey tonight. No, you can't work late and try to avoid it," she announced quickly, knowing what his protest was going to be. "It's Robert's birthday, and he's invited us, and from what I can tell, he sounds very adamant that you come."

Matthew sighed, closing his newspaper. "Mother, I may not be able to get off work until late tonight." He honestly wasn't sure of his work schedule, but he certainly hoped he could get out of the dinner. He still felt terrible up at the big house, trying to fit in as if nothing had ever happened. Of course it had.

"They will understand if you have to leave earlier," Isobel replied, in a forceful tone that she rarely adopted with her typically obedient son.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and after thinking a moment, pressed his lips together in conciliation. "I suppose I must go then," he said, not really sounding very excited about the whole ordeal.

Isobel smiled at her son. "Yes, you must."

And that was how he found himself sitting in the car that evening on the way to the abbey. He had wanted to walk, which would both delay his arrival and give him time to sort himself out before having to go to dinner, but Isobel had other ideas. "Besides," she had said, "It's a long walk. Are you even feeling up to it?"

He had let out a heavy sigh in response, as if to let her know he didn't want to do as she said, but he was too tired to protest. And the car arrived at Downton, and Matthew didn't want to be there.

Carson led them into the drawing room and announced their presence, perhaps a bit more forcefully than usual. Maybe he knew too, Matthew thought. Maybe Mary told him about what had happened, how terrible he had been to both her and Lavinia. No wonder he was so gruff.

Mary stood up quickly to greet them. She was wearing the blue dress, the very one she had worn when they had danced...and then they had kissed and it had ruined everything. He tried to shrug off the notion that the dress meant anything, but the memory was so intertwined with everything else it seemed impossible to forget.

And despite the face that he hated what he had done, he almost didn't want to forget.

In the flurry of greetings, Matthew noticed that Sir Richard Carlisle was in the room as well. He hated that man, even though he didn't have any particular reason to. He just seemed so possessive, so controlling of Mary. It was his right, of course, as Mary was his fiancee. Matthew tried to swallow his dislike for the man and gave him a cold, formal greeting.

"How long have you been up here, Sir Richard?" Isobel asked, trying to break the tension between Matthew and Carlisle, and now Mary who had come closer to her intended.

"A few days. There were some final things I needed to do on Haxby before we move in. Speaking of which, Mary, when exactly will that be?"

Mary bristled at his passive-aggressive tone. He had been trying to get her to decide for months, sensing her reluctance. "I'd like a summer wedding, but I suppose it's a little bit late for that now. Spring or summer, I should think."

He looked annoyed at this, but smoothly said, "The sooner the better."

The conversation reached an awkward stall. Matthew, not wanting to make eye contact with Mary or Carlisle, stared at his feet while Isobel peppered small questions that got one or two words out of those they were addressed to.

"Dinner is served, milord." Carson opened the door and let the family and their guests walk through to the dining room.

Mary was seated next to Carlisle, who seemed pleased with this arrangement. Matthew was at the other end of the table, and while he told himself this was for the best, he couldn't help but wish he was next to Mary.

"And how have you been lately? I've barely seen any of you?" Robert drew his attention from the seating arrangements.

Matthew took a sip of wine and nodded. "I've been doing alright, thank you. Busy with work, you know."

The earl gave him a kind smile, far kinder than he deserved. "How is it, getting back into work after...everything?"

Everything. That word encompassed so much. The war, the injuries, the flu. The last few years he wanted to forget so badly. "Going back to the firm has been a welcome diversion." It was true, unlike so much of what he said in polite conversation. Most of the time, he never seemed to mean what he said. Nobody needed to know of his turmoil, and no one but Isobel and Mary actually did know.

"That's very good. Of course, I'm hoping you'll join me more often to work on the estate."

Matthew did not really want to spend more time around Robert, working on the estate. It wasn't Robert's fault at all, more his own. He couldn't see himself as the good earl that Robert was, and he had no mind for estate matters anyway. Even just walking around the estate the effects of the war could be seen, and that unnerved him. He didn't want to explain all that to Robert, though. "I suppose. I'll try and find the time," he replied noncommittally.

"Very good, I'll look forward to it," Robert replied, not sensing the hesitation in Matthew's voice. While Robert was a good, kind man, he was often oblivious the the feelings of those around him. This eased and troubled Matthew at the same time. On one hand, it was nice to have someone who didn't pester him about his dark moods, even if it was simply because they didn't notice them. On the other, Matthew was afraid that Robert might easily make an insensitive comment that would put him even more ill at ease.

"Happy birthday," Matthew quietly said, trying to distract from the estate conversation. He hadn't said it to him earlier, having been distracted by Mary and Carlisle. Always Mary.

Robert seemed genuinely happy. "Thank you. It's so nice not to have the war gong on, don't you agree? I haven't had a nicer birthday for a long time."

Matthew pressed his lips together. There was the insensitive comment. "Yes, I suppose so." Certainly, everything was more dismal during the war, but the offhand, nonchalant way that Robert mentioned it set Matthew's teeth on edge. But Matthew supposed he had every right to mention it. At the time of Robert's last birthday, there wasn't much celebrating, as it had only been a little more than a week since Matthew had come back and the dark cloud over the house as a result of William's death had not lifted.

Matthew glanced up, feeling the awkward lull in the conversation with Robert, and straight across from him was Mary. She was smiling, though he intuitively saw it as a fake, plastered on smile. How he longed for a real smile from her, a grin and a laugh that would light up her face, even her eyes, that could convince him of her happiness.

It wasn't her fault that Lavinia died. It was his fault, and his alone. All she deserved was happiness, and somehow he knew Carlisle couldn't give her the true happiness she deserved.

But then again, neither could he.

She would never want to be around him, never want to have to talk to him. He wished she could avoid him, if only for her own sake, not his. He was toxic, spreading pain and misery wherever he went. He had rejected her after proposing to her, he had gone off to the front without thinking of the pain he had caused. He had proposed to Lavinia as a means of telling Mary he was over her, and while he did love Lavinia, it wasn't enough. And he hadn't been able to keep up the facade. Lavinia had paid the price. He caused enough damage, perhaps it would be better if he left.

He could leave. He could go to Manchester, live the life he had before the Titanic sank, and forget. It would be better for everyone involved. Everyone in his life who no doubt wished they hadn't ever met him.

But there was some invisible force holding him back. Something that drew him to Downton. After all the suffering he had gone through at Downton, all the pain and sorrow, he felt that it was his home. No, he would tell himself. Manchester was supposed to be hope. He had lived the first twenty-six years of his life there. Downton was only a small part of his life, a drop in the river. He had only really lived there for four years, having been in France a good deal of the past few years. So why couldn't he leave Downton behind?

He glanced up again, watching Mary flash a beautiful yet insincere smile at Carlisle. A smile befitting of a trophy wife, a little demure thing that would adhere to her husband at all times and be there for the purpose of looking beautiful. Why was Mary resigning herself to this? She was not the kind of woman to be a trophy wife.

Mary caught his eye across the table, and raised an eyebrow at him. He blushed and looked back down at his plate, as if the soufflé was the most fascinating thing in the world. Why was he blushing like a schoolboy. For heavens sake, he had been through a long war, terrible injuries, a long recovery, and far too much death. His cousin should not make him feel like that.

Everything was off kilter, everything was messed up, and the world was very much a strange place like Matthew. He was like a toddler in so many ways, intelligent enough to observe the world around him, yet naive in how it worked or what it was supposed to do. He had felt the toddler comparison most strongly when he was recovering. He was like a child just learning to walk, which in many ways, he was. Lavinia had not helped with that, hovering over him almost constantly, to the point of annoyance. He tried to see it as endearing, but he just couldn't.

Maybe that was the first clue that could have prevented his mistakes.

He knew nothing now, had no idea where he was, what he was doing, or where he was to go. He was lost, lost in a world where he didn't really belong, thrust into the lives of people who would have been happier without him. How did he come to this pitiable existence? Until he became earl, he would always be the cousin who everyone hated but whom no one had the heart to tell.

And he wasn't helping himself by ogling Mary. He wasn't helping anybody.

"Shall we leave the men for a while?" Cora asked after dessert was served and birthday greetings exchanged. Matthew honestly hadn't paid attention to much of it, having stared at his plate, lost in thought. The rest of the family was used to this, although it confused them. They had the sense not to question him. He had been different, a quieter, more introspective man since the war, and they figured this was just part of the changes that had rocked his world.

"Care for a cigar?" Robert asked to both Matthew and Carlisle after the ladies had left.

Matthew shook his head. He had smoked in the trenches, everybody had. After his injuries, the nurses would not allow smoking in the hospital or the convalescent home and when he had tried it again, he found it rather vulgar.

Carlisle, on the other hand, took one and lit it. "Has Mary said anything to you about the wedding?"

"A couple things. She mentioned she wanted a summer wedding," Robert said nonchalantly.

This was obviously a point of contention for Carlisle, whose tone darkened. "Yes, that. If only she had informed me of her wishes before now, so that we could have married this summer. I'm not the patient type."

"We've noticed," Matthew muttered under his breath.

Carlisle didn't seem to hear, and if he had heard he ignored Matthew's comment. "Would you like to come and tour Haxby?" he asked, directing the question towards Robert. Matthew felt on the periphery of it all, not truly there.

It would be better if he wasn't there.

Dinners had been terribly awkward when he'd first come. He had no idea how to make conversation, especially not with aristocrats who were ten thousand times more sophisticated than he. He had adjusted, of course, but the war had thrown everything off again.

When he had come back on leave, he found it so strange that while men where off at the front being killed, everyone still dressed in white tie and Carson still presiding. He couldn't get used to it again.

And he still hadn't regained the ease he had in the dining room right before the start of the war. He was still adjusting, though in his mind it was taking a mournfully long time.

Everything was taking a long time and Matthew did not consider himself a particularly patient man.

"Milord, I'd like to speak to you a minute." Carson's deep voice broke Matthew from his reverie.

Robert nodded and left the room with Carson, leaving Matthew alone with Carlisle.

"So, have you spoken to my fiancee lately?" Carlisle interrogated.

Matthew rolled his eyes at Carlisle's lack of subtlety. His direct question was like the scars on his back, apparent and jumping out at you without hesitation. "A couple times. She's not shared much through. How is she, really?"

Carlisle shrewdly observed the man he regarded as his rival, though Matthew could not see why he thought of it that way. "She's doing well, although I'd like to know if you have an answer as to why she is putting off our wedding."

"She had told me she wants a summer wedding."

"That seems to be the consensus, doesn't it? Well, I feel like she has some other motive, and I should like to know if you have any idea as to what it was." Carlisle gave Matthew a hateful glance, one that in some corner of his mind he knew he probably deserved.

Matthew shook his head. "She's your fiancee. You would know her better than I."

"Ah, but it seems I do not. You have spent hours with her, surely you have some idea behind her character, some glimpse into what goes on in her mind," Carlisle replied.

How could he have been more mistaken. Matthew doubted he knew Mary at all, after everything that had happened. There were so many sides to her, so many things he couldn't and probably wouldn't ever know. "No, I'm afraid my powers of observation are not quite what you esteem them to be."

Carlisle looked annoyed, perhaps even angry, but he simply took another puff on his cigar. "Very well then. Perhaps she simply just wants a summer wedding." It was obvious he did not believe that, but being a man of information, he knew when a source was depleted.

Thankfully Robert came back in and interrupted the silence that had settled between them. "Well, shall we join the ladies?"

Matthew gratefully got up, the simple act of getting out of a chair still an effort for him. When they entered the room, he hung awkwardly to the edge, unsure who to talk to. Before everything, he probably would be talking with Sybil, who tended to enjoy conversation with him. She claimed she was glad to finally have an 'open-minded' person to talk to. Matthew wasn't sure how open-minded he was, but he took it as a compliment.

But Sybil was in Ireland, married to her chauffeur who he hoped was making her happy. Branson was a good man, though his revolutionary ideals could get the best of him. They all had their flaws, Matthew reasoned, and Branson's overly zealous nature was one of his.

And Matthew's own flaws he considered extensive.

"How are you?" He wast taken out of his thoughts yet again, this time by Mary's voice. She stood next to him with a smile.

He blinked rapidly. "I'm doing alright. I mean, not much has changed."

"It must be different for everything to be so quiet..." Mary commented. She touched his hand gently. "To be honest, I rather prefer it."

He let a small smile show. "Well, it is nice not to be in mortal danger every day, if that's what you mean."

"Well, I'm glad," she replied.

He observed Carlisle in the corner of the room, standing next to Edith but carefully observing him and Mary. Of course he would do that. Carlisle was like a hawk, always watching and carefully protecting. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Matthew took a deep breath. "Why Carlisle?"

She took it upon herself to pretend she didn't know what he was talking about. "What? Do you not like him?"

"You know I'm not fond of him. I just...if he won't make you happy, I don't want you to marry him. You should be happy."

Mary sighed. "I'm glad you're concerned for my welfare, but I can certainly manage Carlisle on my own."

"But why are you marrying him?"

She turned her face away from him, almost embarrassed to be sharing. "It's nothing, really. He has the power to make me very unhappy, but if I marry him, he will try his best to make me happy."

"But will he?" His voice sounded desperate, anxious for Mary to come back to him.

Mary gave him a dark glance. "I can only hope. I think I'm going to retire. I have a terrible headache."

He sighed, frustrated with the little he had been able to get out of her. Nothing was clear.


End file.
